


Arya Stark and the Mystery of her Sister’s Baby Daddy

by aryaologys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Short One Shot, The Who got Sansa Pregnant au, jonsa, lord commander!jon, minor brancella, past Gendrya, queen!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:15:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryaologys/pseuds/aryaologys
Summary: Arya knows her sister isn’t one to kiss and tell, she’s established how unladylike it is to share your intimate life, and Sansa remains unwed so it feels even more awkward to ask . . .but where in all seven hells did Sansa’s three children come from?





	Arya Stark and the Mystery of her Sister’s Baby Daddy

**Author's Note:**

> sjdhhdjs this is legit crack, what i smoke and what i write

>  

 

Arya Stark found there’s little that’s west of Westeros after she’s been voyaging the high seas for five years. A few islands, even fewer people each more exciting than the last, but there’s no real place to settle and it makes for a disappointing experience but she treasures the freedom it gave her. At least she can look back and say to herself,  _I did that, I left home and it was my choice and my choice only._

She’s been away from home for a long while, she knows, and it’s only when she finds a direwolf pin tossed aside in her cabin that her heart clenched with the most painful bout of homesickness. So back to her homeland she heads, docking at White Harbor. The snows are falling lightly but it isn’t winter. It’s the summer snows, the ones from her childhood. The weather that she begged her mother to let her play in. The weather that gave her snowball fights with Bran and Rickon and making snowmen with Robb and Jon . . . she rides her horse a little harder when she sees Winterfell in the distance from the hill she’s stopped on. 

 

Wintefell, it seems, is as it was all those years ago. When Arya was a girl and Winterfell was a thriving keep with kind Northerners and loyal servants. Everyone seems a little less sullen and icy under the rule of the Queen in the North—why shouldn’t they be? They’re free. Free from any chaos that may arise in the South again. But from what Arya has heard, and she’s heard so little, it’s nothing but peaceful. 

 

Arya tells a guard of her arrival. She waits by gates, knowing that Sansa would like her to be properly received. 

 

She catches sight of two small children, a girl and boy, aged maybe five and three, running around the snows under the watchful eye of a Septa. Their bubbling laughter is so precious to hear, Arya can’t help but smile. 

 

She sees one of the children, the girl, with hair as red as Rickon’s had been . . . strange color to see in the North. The younger boy is dark of hair though, but he gets close enough for Arya to see he has the bluest pair of eyes she’s seen in a while. 

 

The boy gets too close and bumps right into Arya’s legs. He falls on his butt, looking up at her with those big blue eyes, slightly apologetic.

 

“ _Forgwive_ me, my lady,” The boy says through an adorable lisp. 

 

Arya helps him up. “Nothing to forgive.” 

 

The boy smiles widely, and it vaguely reminds Arya if someone, before he’s rushing back to his redheaded playing companion 

 

“ _Arya_?” It’s Sansa’s voice. 

 

She turns to see her queen sister; Sansa has thrived in the past half decade. She’s more beautiful than Arya can remember her mother had been. Her nose and cheeks are red from the cold, even if the same ice that was running through Arya’s blood ran through hers. Sansa’s big blue eyes widened at the sight of her. The thick fur cloak barely hides the blue velvet dress she wears, nor does it hide Sansa’s obviously swelled stomach. 

 

Sansa’s surprised, clearly, and caught off guard. Her hand goes to her stomach. She looks more _caught_ , overall. 

 

“Hello?” Arya smiles. Her eyes go to her sisters belly. “I suppose two hellos . . .?”

 

“ _Mother!_ ” The playing children Arya saw just a few moments ago storm towards her sister. 

 

Arya’s brows raise. “Mother?” She echoes.

 

Sansa is as a loss for words as Arya feels and smiles down at the children, _her_ children, who chatter away like little chickens. Sansa runs her hand through the boy’s unruly curls, looking up at Arya who still stands, stunned at this revelation. 

 

“Children,” Sansa speaks at last. Her blue eyes soften in the way Arya hadn’t known she missed. “Won’t you go and greet Lady Arya over there . . . your aunt.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Arya learns that Sansa’s children are named Lyarra ( she likes to be called _Lya_  ) and Eddrick, but he’s called Ned by everyone who sees him. Lyarra is almost five, but not quite, and little Ned is just a few moons shy of being three and a half. They’re pretty, very much so, but Arya can scarcely believe that _Sansa_ would make an ugly child. 

 

Lyarra is what Arya can remember her father calling _wolfblooded._ One look at her and she’s all Sansa but then she speaks and runs and dirties her pretty little dress and any sense of courtesies are thrown out the door. Her eyes are as grey as the armor of the Winterfell guards, pure ice, pure Stark. Arya’s seen Sansa sigh about a handful of times at Arya’s wild niece and can’t help but feel the tiniest bit amused. 

 

Little Ned is his mother’s child, though his appearance strays from that of his older sister. Not kissed by fire but his eyes are Tully blue, his hair is a mop of unruly dark brown curls, probably a menace to cut and wash from what Arya can tell. But he’s so calm and quiet, sitting next to his sister at the table while they eat, intent on finishing his food. 

 

A perfect little family, Arya thinks. And since there’s only ever talk about what a great ruler Queen Sansa was and no talk whatsoever about a King, it just confirms Arya’s assumption that her sister has no husband.  

 

There is an empty chair beside Sansa that makes her narrow her eyes in contemplation.

 

It bags the _largest_ question . . . Arya knows her sister isn’t one to kiss and tell, she’s established how unladylike it is to share your intimate life, and Sansa remains unwed so it feels even more awkward to ask . . . but where in all seven hells did Sansa’s three children come from?

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bran writes he’s elated about your arrival here back home,” Sansa tells her one day as they sit in her solar. “He says Myrcella and he welcome you into their home anytime, as well, if it is what you wish.”

 

It’s still a bit strange to think of Bran as a King to Seven— _Six_ Kingdoms. But for what Arya has heard, and she’s heard so little, King’s Landing has all but recovered from the Targaryen madness that reigned down on them half a decade ago. Arya just doesn’t have it in her heart to travel South and see for her own eyes. 

 

As for Myrcella, Arya was even more puzzled to learn of her survival, disguised as a Septa for so long one Dorne until after the war. Many still look at her and see Robert Baratheon’s daughter, no matter her true roots, and everyone celebrated the match. Sansa says Myrcella truly loves Bran and Arya supposes that’s all that counts.  

 

“I don’t think I’ll be traveling South,” Arya says nonchalant. “Not any time soon.” 

 

Sansa nods understandably, “I was bedridden after birthing Eddrick, and so I missed their nuptials,” She tells her, avoiding her eyes. “But I can can write him back for you, if you wish.”

 

Arya looks at her, smiling. “Please.” Her eyes go down to Sansa’s stomach. “You’re probably due any day now, aren’t you?”

 

Her sister beams, “Closer to the end of the next moon, says the Maester.” She says. 

 

Arya nods, holding her gaze. Sansa swallows nervously. She stands and walks ( more like waddles ) over to the desk and begins writing the letter to their brother, filling it with some pretty words no doubt that just simply boil down to a rejection. There’s a silence that fills the room, a looming question that is just waiting to be asked but since Sansa is clearly not willing to divulge, Arya will not push. 

 

It’s way better, Arya thinks, having Sansa blush around like she’s the Maiden reborn or a Septa being asked about what a bedding ceremony consists of while eight months pregnant. 

 

* * *

 

 

Arya decides, mainly out of pure boredom of just being around the keep, to figure out for herself who might be the father of her sisters children. It’s not like there’s much else to do. And it’s clear Sansa won’t tell her without some pushing. The first thing she does is take it upon herself to get to know her niece and nephew. She gets nothing from their appearance but she supposed it’s because they’re far too young now—all adorable with their childish roundness. And all Arya can see is Sansa for now.  Whoever their father is, he left no evidence of himself in his issue. 

 

Sansa has done a fine job raising them. She always had it in her, being a mother. She’s kind and patient and always seems to know what her children need or want. She sings them songs to sleep, not the new ones but the old ones before the Long Night, like the Bear and the Maiden Fair and Jenny of Oldstone, which is Eddrick’s favorite apparently. 

 

Arya watches Eddrick a lot, the young boy seems to entertain himself when his unruly sister is being too wild or off on her own adventures. He’s got solemnity in his eyes that makes Arya’s heart clench when she recognizes it—he ends up falling asleep in her arms once when Sansa and she were talking in her room about Arya’s travels. 

 

Looking down at his innocent face, Arya is hit with the sudden memory that Ned Stark has been gone from this earth for so long now, but it’s such a wondrous thing to see him in the grandchildren he never got to meet. The thought makes Arya hold her nephew a little closer. 

 

Arya wants nothing more, in that moment, to help Sansa give these children the childhood they had. Wholesome and memorable. Filled with laughter and no horrors of their youth. 

 

In another life, Arya could’ve helped fill these cold halls. _Had I accepted that bulls offer little wolf,_ Arya fondly thinks, _You would’ve had a doe of a cousin_. . . but in all of Arya’s practicality, she rejected the offer because it wasn’t who she was and sailed off. Arya is told—not that she asked—the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands married a pretty Hightower girl and she’s probably given him some children of his own now. 

 

In her niece, Arya sees who she used to be. Carefree and willful. Sansa says deny Lyarra anything and it becomes her hearts desire. Arya can remember her own mother saying that about herself, too, once. Lya is a wolfpup to the core, with stains of unknown origins on some gowns that Sansa puts her in and a cheeky grin that no one in the castle can deny. 

 

 “Aunt Arya,” Lyarra suddenly says as they sit watching the snow fall from the battlements. “Is it true you killed the Night King?” She asks with idolizing eyes. 

 

Arya isn't sure Sansa likes the thought of her five year old daughter knowing what killing is but she answers anyway, “I did . . . yes.” 

 

Lya’s eyes widened, beaming, “Were you scared a lot or a little?”

 

“A lot,” Arya says too quickly. “Very much. But I wanted to live, for everyone to live.”

 

Lya’s little face takes a thoughtful expression as she looks on at the snow. “Everyone says you are a hero, mother says that, right Ned?”

 

Eddrick is playing at their feet with some wooden toys. He pauses his play to look back at them and nod. He continues playing. 

 

“I’m no hero,” Arya says low. “I just did it because . . because I had to, because I think I was meant to.”

 

“You were _brave_ ,” Lya tells her. 

 

“I wasn’t. I was scared,” Arya insists. She doesn’t want them growing up with fanciful ideals. 

 

“Sometimes,” Eddrick speaks up but doesn’t look up from his toys. “That is the only time someone can be brave. When you get scared.” 

 

Arya thinks about that. 

 

Looking at her nephew and niece, she knows she won’t her a thing from them, and asking them directly who their father was may ruin anything Sansa ever told them, if she’s ever told them a thing. 

 

She figures the only way she can get an answer to look around her. Maybe, and just maybe, she might find answers in some men around Winterfell.   

 

 

* * *

 

In the list of possible suitors for Sansa, there was Torrhen Tallhart. Frankly, Arya knows her sister could do much better but he’s the first one that comes to mind. The second son of his house, he’s apart of the Queensguard, a rumored hero from the Long Night who saved many women and children ( it’s no competition but Arya thinks even she has him beat when it comes to accomplishments ) plus he’s sort of handsome and charismatic. 

 

Arya’s also heard he had intended to court Sansa when he first arrived but she made him her Queensguard instead. Arya laughed at that.

 

The possibility dwindled further when he arrived at dinner and Lyarra threw her entire bowl of kidney pie at his head when he tried to take that empty seat by Sansa that Arya always had wondered who it belonged to.  

 

“That’s not yours!” Lyarra shrieked. “Off!” 

 

“Lyarra!” Sansa says. 

 

“Well it isn’t!” Arya’s niece tosses a spoon at him. 

Eddrick was laughing in his seat at the sight of his mothers Queensguard covered in the smashed contents of the kidney pie. Ser Brienne even stifles a laugh and let’s the little prince laugh onto her. 

 

“Princesses do not throw food at their household Knights!” Sansa scolds her daughter.

 

“I do not care what princesses do!” The little princess pushes out of her seat angrily, huffing with big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

 

Lyarra wails the whole time she runs out of the Great Hall and Sansa apologizes to the knight who simply waves her assuringly. Their queen stands to go but Arya is quicker, rushing after her niece to find her in her aunts room. 

 

Lya is curled off in front of the fireplace, her knees tucked to her chest as she sniffles. Arya sighs, sitting down beside her, listening to the crackle of the flames and the soft cries of her little niece. Lya frustratedly pushes her red curls away from her face, but they continue to fall in her face until Arya gathers them softly, braiding it down her back. 

 

Arya looks at her niece, “I used to hide in other peoples rooms too,” She says.

 

Lya looks up at her with those eerily familiar grey eyes that look almost black in the dim lighting. “W-why?”

 

“My mother used to get mad at me a lot too, I was a horrible little lady,” Arya cracks a smile. “In fact . . . I ever was a lady. Your mother was, and look at her now.”

 

Lya sniffles. “I am not a good princess. Princess do not do the things I do,” She says timidly. “I try, I do. But I am no good.” 

 

“Hey, c’mere,” Arya says softly. Lya scoots into her arms. “I think you’re the best princess I’ve ever seen.”

 

Lya snuggles into her side. “My father says the same thing to me.” 

 

Arya is surprised at that. She wants to go and ask who her father is but by the time she looks down, Lyarra eyes are fluttering close as the tears dry on her cheeks. 

 

 _So close_.  

 

* * *

 

 

Any other possibility of Sansa’s suitors keep checking off. From some Cerwyn to a Hornwood and even some Riverlands lord that comes for trading reasons, each and every one just isn’t the father of Arya’s niece and nephew and as the days drag on, she’s further convinced that Sansa might’ve been blessed by some emasculate conception or another because this mystery is not being solved. 

 

Arya gets desperate after a few weeks and corners Ser Brienne at one point. 

 

“Forgive me, princess Arya,” Brienne says, at her post outside Sansa’s study. “But I think this is information you must ask the queen yourself.”

 

“First of all, never call me princess,” Arya sighs as she leans against the stone wall. “And secondly, my sister hasn’t told me for the whole month that I’ve been here. She won’t tell me now—”

 

The horn that signals an arrival of guests sounds out from the courtyard and Arya turns to Brienne. The lady knight has a smile on her face that Arya narrows her eyes at. 

 

“We are not done,” Arya says to her. 

 

She rushes to see who has arrived, stopping on the battlements to see several figures in all black cloaks. _Jon_. How had she forgotten her brot—cousin, her cousin, how had she just forgot that he was only a few leagues away? Back at the Nights Watch, not even a days ride away? She’s spent all this time in Sansa’s business when she could’ve been with Jon, beyond the Wall and experiencing life with the Wildlings!

 

Caught up in her ignorance, she stays standing right at the pillar, watching as the familiar childish shrieks of Sansa’s children come pouring out. 

 

Arya sees Jon’s face as he pulls down his cloak, kneeling to capture the running children in his arms. She watches as he shuts his eyes tightly in the way he does when he hugs his loved ones, that tight hug, that _I don’t want to let you go_ hug.

 

No doubt Jon has met Sansa’s children many times and he cares for them as much as he does the rest of them. But as Arya nears closer she sees them talking excitedly, the children’s eyes as wide and affection as whenever Sansa speaks to them . . . Jon hands them both something, completely oblivious to Arya standing off to the side, hiding behind Brienne’s tall figure. 

 

She finally sees what Jon hands them. Direwolves. Then she hears his deep baritone voice say, “ . . . Ghost met a friend beyond the Wall, she had pups . . . keep them if your mother says—”

 

Sansa suddenly comes as well, grabbing the ends of her gown to not let it get soaked by the snow. 

 

Jon stands up, a handsome smile thrown at the Queen’s way, “Your Grace.” He tilts his head at her. 

 

Sansa flushes. Arya blinks back. _Since when did Sansa blush at anything Jon says_ –“You got them direwolves?” Her sister tries to sound outraged, but all that comes out is passionate fondness. 

 

“Puppies!” Eddrick says, the all white pup licking at his cheek. 

 

“Mother! Can we keep them?” Lya is already piercing Sansa with her icy gaze, the little princess ready for a challenge. 

 

“The wolves are of the North,” Jon says easily, leaning back in his stance. “The prince and princess deserve to have some good protectors–” He looks to Brienne, smiling a bit easier. “-of the animal kind.” 

 

“Gods be good,” Sansa says lowly as she pinches the bridge of her nose. She looks at her children and sighs, “Take them inside, go on.” 

 

Lya and Eddrick each grin from ear to ear, rushing back inside the keep with Brienne following after them. Once Brienne is gone is when Arya steps into view. 

 

Jon lets out a breath as he looks at her with those familiar grey eyes. It’s as if he can barley believe that she’s there. Sometimes she can’t too, “Hey, you.” He rasps, his voice thick with emotion.

 

Arya rushes over, wrapping her arms around his neck as he lifts her up. “Hey, to you too, stupid.” She murmurs in his shoulder.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The mystery draws to a close when its time for dinner and their special guest joins them. Lya seemingly forgets Arya even though she was at her hip most days, instead hand in hand with Jon as they walk into the Great Hall. They both smile at her and it’s only when their eyes are on her that Arya almost chokes on the ale that she drinks—their eyes . . . Lya’s eyes had been so familiar, she thought it was because of herself, like looking in a mirror but no—

 

And if that hadn’t happened then the frost on the pastry was when they all were seated.

 

The seat by Sansa was finally filled.

 

Jon slides in without preamble. 

 

And Lyarra didn’t even bat an eye. 

 

 _Seven hells_. 

 

* * *

 

 

After everything, Arya feels quite stupid. 

 

Lyarra’s eyes?  _Jon_. Eddrick’s solemnity?  _Jon_. The children’s curls. _Jon_. Jon, Jon, Jon. Anything familiar in Sansa’s children, anything that struck something akin to affection in Arya, was all _Jon_.

 

She’s laughing at herself in her chambers as she gathers all her evidence together. Arya, without a certain doubt, knows the father of Sansa’s children is Jon! Arya doesn’t even know how or when—well, she knows _how_ , but the _when_  is more important to her, like when did Sansa suddenly take a liking to Jon’s—but then it hits her. Jon isn’t a bastard, he’s a _prince_ , a Targaryen prince. But Arya curses herself for thinking of her sister so lowly, Sansa has matured beyond the days of wishing for a prince, she’s a Queen in her own right why would she want an exiled prince for nothing more than his title? 

 

But Sansa was Sansa and just because she had grown, does not mean that she threw away her love of stories and right now, Arya felt like she was listening to the tale of Bael the Bard . . . 

 

She yanks the door to her chamber open and rushes down the hall to where she knows Sansa’s rooms at located. She’s grinning to herself all the while. 

 

When she pushes past Brienne, the lady knight is grinning as well, and Arya opens her sisters chamber door to see Jon and Sansa in bed—Arya shrieks, turning away. But then opens eye to see Sansa is simply in bed, reading. While Jon has Eddrick and Lyarra in his arms, speaking lowly to them until Arya bursted in. 

 

“Oh,” Arya speaks, a bit smug. “Am I—I don’t know? Interrupting something?”

 

“Aunt Arya!” Lya giggles. “We’re thinking of names for our puppies. Father says you named yours Nymera!” 

 

“No, _Nyneria_ ,” Eddrick corrects. 

 

“Oh, yes,” Lya nods. “Nyneria!”

 

“Actually, _Nymeria_ ,” Arya says, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks at Sansa and Jon who stare at her with awaiting expressions to her reaction. “And yes, your _father_ is right.”

 

Sansa visibly relaxes. Jon just smiles at her, the secret smile they’ve shared since they were young. The one said said, _you know_. Arya finds the picture in front of her quite lovely. The family, the one she knows each of the two people she loves most in the world deserved for so long. 

 

“Well,” Arya drawls, grinning. “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight,” Sansa smiles sheepishly.

 

Lya waves at her, “See you in the morrow, Aunt Arya!” She smiles more true than she thinks she’s ever seen. “Night!”

 

Eddrick waves softly, “Goodnight aunt.”  

 

Arya steps back until she’s out the door, shutting it behind her. She takes a second to process what had just been revealed to her. She chuckles a bit, thinking about all the stranger things that had happen to her, making the conclusion to this mystery not that far-fetched.

 

Arya looks at the lady knight. “Wow.”

 

Brienne looks at her, nodding knowingly. 

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks after Jon’s arrival, Sansa is in the birthing chambers, screaming out for the whole keep to hear their queen in labor. Arya shakes her head rapidly at Brienne when the lady knight tells her Sansa wishes her to be in the room but her denial falls to deaf ears as she’s pushed in, Jon patting a cool cloth on Sansa’s forehead. She’s red and sweaty but somehow, and annoyingly so, Arya thinks she looks beautiful. 

 

She sighs and takes her sisters free hand.

 

Sansa gives her a shaky smile, thankful.

 

A few long hours later, two new lives are born into the world. A girl as red as Sansa’s and eyes just as blue and a boy with the Stark look are cradled in their parents arms. Sansa calls the girl Catelyn and the boy Robb . . . Jon notices the slight force smile at his new daughter’s name and Arya stifles a laugh. 

 

Lyarra and Eddrick coo up at their new siblings.

 

Arya ends up back in her chambers at the end of what seemed like the longest day in her life. 

 

She’s done with mysteries. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> a mess, a literal mess!! half of it deleted and it was wayyyy better but hahahaha god HATES ME :p but tell me what ya think it validates me :p


End file.
